


What To Do With An Atypical Animal Within

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Also tailporn, Animagus, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform, Hogwarts, M/M, Oh yeah Sherlock's basically a furry, Porn-With-A-Little-Plot, Watch out for that if animal tails make you eeky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is determined to be an animagus. But what happens when it isn't a fox or a horse or a dog he's turning into?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What To Do With An Atypical Animal Within

**Author's Note:**

> Warning, this is preeeetty cracky
> 
> Basically, I drew this picture on a whim (( http://fav.me/d5rmlar )) and I wanted to do something with it since Sherlock looks rather nice like that, but I didn't want to just stick a tail and ears on Sherlock in BBCverse because that's a little bit silly, so instead I made it a crossover! This is not meant to be taken seriously, really. Just have as much fun with it as I did!
> 
> Also, can someone let me know if this should be tagged as underage? They're like, 16, 17 years old.

John hated late Quidditch practices. It meant he had to leave dinner early and had to stay up late finishing his homework. Now, thanks to Sherlock, it looks like he isn't going to get any time at all.  
  
He's silently cursing Sherlock in the name of every great wizard he can think of as he walks down that length of corridor, still sore and muddy after practice because Sherlock had told him to come immediately, for the third time.  
  
The door he had been waiting for, and thinking about between cursing his bad taste in friendships, slowly materializes in the wall.  
  
He walks inside and goes to drop his stuff in his designated corner of Sherlock's lab, barely noticing what's going on in the rest of the room.  
  
"This better be good Sherlock. I've got ten inches to write on runes stones before Wednesday and I'd like to get it started tonight." he says. There's no reply which is odd. That's when he looks up and notices the lab is empty except for one new addition amongst the regular tables and cauldrons. Toward the back of the room there's a screen. Like the kind they put up in the hospital wing when someone is getting changed so no one can see them.  
  
"Sherlock?" he calls again, walking hesitantly towards that screen, wondering what sort of creature he's going to find this time.

 

"Wait, John," The Ravenclaw's form can be seen standing up, illuminated in front of the light of an oil lamp, and his voice is sharp and a little bit shaky. "I have to, ah, tell you something first. I've been working on it for quite some time, and I thought I made a breakthrough today and I wanted to share, but you have to promise you won't say a word to _anyone._ "

 

"If you've turned yourself purple again I told you, I will not lie to Madame Hudson a fifth time." John sighs, shaking his head. The poor nurse had seen far too much of them because of Sherlock's experiments already.

 

"No, John, it has nothing to do with color changing," Sherlock says a little bitterly. "Promise me, John. I need you to promise."

 

John rolls his eyes but he's starting to get curious. "Yes alright I promise. I won't tell a soul now what is it?"

 

Sherlock steps out from behind the screen. Sitting in his dark curls there are two long, ebony cat ears, perched evenly and sitting straight up, the short fur gleaming in the firelight. And then a long, thin tail curls out from behind him, with more fur collected at the end than there probably should be, giving it the appearance of a jet black lion's tail.  


"I'm going to become an animagus," he confides in his closest (only) friend with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

 

"Merlin." John says, looking him up and down. "That's...ah....You look like you've gotten a bit stuck."

 

"Yes, I have," Sherlock frowns, curling his tail around his legs and picking tangles out of the tuft at the end. "And I don't know how to turn it back just yet, but I've got to figure out before I leave here. I don't want anyone else to know about this, no one at all, do you understand me? I hate the thought of being part of some list like they're just waiting for me to be a criminal, I refuse."

 

“Sherlock if you do figure this mess out and become an angimaus you'll have to register with the Ministry. Or you are a criminal." John says, still openly staring. He starts to circle his friend, taking in his new tail and ears from every angle. "Why a cat, if you don't mind me asking."

 

"I didn't pick," Sherlock frowns again. "I just let the spell take me where it did. I'm not so sure I'm a cat, to be honest, this tail isn't quite normal."

 

"You're not quite normal." John sighs. "Have you forgotten that your strength is in potions, not transfiguration? Leave all that to your brother, it'll be safer for all of us in the long run."

 

Sherlock's eyes are sharp, and it takes John a moment to see his pupils have been reduced to slits. "I _will_ become an animagus," he says stiffly. "And I don't care what the ministry says, not a damn person is going to know about it. And you're not going to tell anyone, John."

 

"Of course not. But this is dangerous." John says. "What if it's not reversible? What if you're stuck with this," he tugs on Sherlock's tail to emphasize his point. "is permanent? I mean they're not a bad look for you but they're a bit conspicuous."

 

Sherlock suddenly yelps and his ears flatten and he lashes out at John, his tail whipping out behind him and away from John's reach. "Don't _do_ that!" he says, his pupils almost gone entirely they were slitted so thinly.

 

"Scratch me again and I'm putting a tickling hex on you." John warns. He could do it too. He's got top marks in Defense Against The Dark Arts since they were first years. "Maybe there's a way to undo it. I can go to the library tomorrow and get some books."

 

"I can't just stay here until then," Sherlock says scornfully, swishing his tail in front of him to flatten the puffed fur. "People will notice I'm gone."

 

"I'll tell them I shoved you down the stairs for being a prat and you're sulking." John huffs. "There's nothing else we can do tonight."

"I can keep trying to continue. Maybe in moving forward I will discover how to move back," Sherlock thinks, and moves behind the screen to carry out a book that he really has no business taking out of the restricted section in the library.

 

"I thought the books scream unless you had a note from a professor." John says, eying the book like it's going to start screaming at any second. Or bite him.

 

Sherlock's lips curl up into a catlike grin that perfectly matches his slitlike pupils, and he continues to leaf through the book. "Do you want to help me figure this out, or not?" he asks.

 

"You're going to get me sent to Azkaban one day." John laughs. "But yes, alright. I'll help you. Though I do like the tail."

 

Sherlock raises his brows at John and reaches out with it, tickling the side of John's neck with the rather wiry tuft at the end. "You like it? I would like it more if I knew how to turn it on and off like I'm supposed to."

 

"I was joking." John says nervously. Sherlock's tail is tickling him and he squirms a little before giving in and taking a step back, out of range. "And if you could turn it on and off you'd be a full cat. Or whatever you're turning into."

 

"I'm really not sure it is a cat," Sherlock says, leafing back through the book again. "The fur at the end... well it's not really fur at all. It's more like hair, it's much thicker and coarser than the fur along the shaft, which is short and actually, rather soft."

 

John smiles. Sherlock's right, his tail was very soft. "I know. I felt it briefly. So what do you think you are then?"

 

Sherlock suddenly lifts the book to a chapter, with a big, bold heading, _What To Do With An Atypical Animal Within._

 

"There's a whole chapter on it. Apparently there was a wizard five hundred years ago whose animagus was a _dragon._ " he says excitedly, leafing once more through the pages of the chapter.

 

"If you're turning into a sphinx I want nothing to do with it." John huffs. He really wishes he could sit down and as soon as the thought is formed there's a comfortable armchair right beside him.

 

"You said you'd help me," Sherlock narrows his eyes at his friend, and there's something so simple and so powerful about how the ears on top of his head flatten back.

 

John sighs, shaking his head a little. He can never say no when Sherlock looks at him like that. "Of course. And of course I will, I didn't mean that. But a sphinx? Really Sherlock?" he nods a little in consent. If there was ever an animal for Sherlock. "Makes sense I suppose."

 

"No, I don't think it's a sphinx either," Sherlock shakes his head, "Sphinxes are traditionally female, I think," he licks his thumb to more easily flip through the pages, before finally lifting up a photograph of a griffin.

 

"A griffin? Really? Something that scratches, bites, and flies?" John says, yanking the book out of Sherlock's hands. "Better than a dragon I suppose but, Merlin Sherlock."

 

"That's what it _feels_ like, anyway, I can't really describe it," Sherlock shakes his head. "My shoulders... they're tight. From the inside. It feels like wings are trying to escape my skin."

 

"That's not a normal animagus to have. Not even close. It could be dangerous. Griffin's are very powerful creatures. You could get stuck in the transformation if it's too much for you." John warns. He's beginning to wonder if Sherlock really thought this all through. Sherlock's experiments are always dangerous but he's never gone this far before and it's starting to worry John.

  

Sherlock is grinning, his eyes are bright. "I know!" he says excitedly. "Oh, but I can _feel_ it John, I can feel it right there, right under the surface, it's trying _so hard_ to come out, John, and I have to let it!"

 

"What if you don't come back? What if it comes out and then you get trapped inside?" John asks quietly. "I don't want to lose you Sherlock."

 

"I apparently have much higher confidence in my skills than you do," Sherlock sniffs, taking the book back from John and leafing through the pages again.

 

"I'm being realistic. I'd prefer you went back to poisoning my dinner." John explains with a roll of his eyes. "It was less dangerous. There are plenty of wizards who end up liking being an animal so much they choose never to change back and the way you’re talking and the power that comes with being a griffin I worry you might end up that way. Especially since you don't particularly like being a person."

 

"Have a little faith in me, John," Sherlock snaps. "If you're so certain I'll never change back and you're so worse for it, then just go. I had hoped I could share this with you." his eyes are hard as he stares down at the book.

 

"I'm not leaving. I want to share this with you. I just want you to be certain of what you're doing." John says, standing back up and placing a hand on Sherlock's arm. "I want to be sure you'll come back to me."

 

"I'll always come back to you," Sherlock says without missing a beat, looking up into John's eyes. They're both quiet for a minute, and Sherlock can feel his pulse rise, but he doesn't break eye contact. He licks his lips. He sees John move a fraction closer, so he abruptly clears his throat and swings away from him, his tail swishing so low the tuft at the end sweeps the cobblestone floor. "I want to try to get it tonight. I've been trying for months, and this is the closest I've ever gotten, I think I can do it tonight. I just... I wanted you here."

 

"Right." John says, trying not to feel too disappointed. He's felt something building between him and Sherlock for a while now but maybe it was just wishful thinking. Sherlock had told him early on that he wasn't interested in any kind of relationship with anyone. The fact that they're friends is a big enough accomplishment.  
  
"Will you hold off so I can go shower and put on some dry clothes? I was just at practice." John asks. "Keep researching or something and I'll be back soon."

 

"Mh," Sherlock waves his hand dissmissively, his eyes riveted to the book.

 

" _Don't do anything until I come back._ " John warns, already at the door. "I mean it Sherlock." And then he's gone. He maybe takes a little bit too long in the shower, but the water feels nice and he’s nervous about going back to Sherlock and seeing him turn into something possibly big and very scary.

 

When he finally returns, redressed and feeling fresh, the door takes a little bit longer to appear. He can already sense that Sherlock hasn't done as he's told, because the inside of the room is crackling with energy, and the book is lying open in the middle of the room. The door opening creates a draft between it and the open window on the other side of the room, and the pages of the book flutter.

 

"Shit, shit, shit. Bloody hell!" John says, rushing to the window, sure he's going to see the silhouette of a griffin flying over the trees of the forbidden forest. However, there's nothing. The moon is rising and the sun is setting in tandem, and the sky, still just barely light, is clear.

 

John turns back around to the room, desperately wishing this is just some cruel prank Sherlock is playing on him.  
  
"Come on Sherlock, this isn't funny! What/s going on?" he calls, moving through the room, systematically checking every place Sherlock could hide.

 

Right as he's about to leave the room again, there's a great rustling behind him, the sound of flapping wings, and then a mighty thud as four feet fall to the stone floor. There's a great puff like an exhale of breath, and John slowly, slowly turns.  
  
Standing just ten feet away is a beast that would make Hagrid weep openly with joy. Standing at least seven feet high, a griffin. It's Sherlock, unmistakably, because those crystal grey eyes are staring at John in just the same way they always do. A jet black beak curves sharply downward and clicks with interest, set in a narrow, shining black-feathered face. The feathers burst into a wingspan of at least fifteen feet, outstretched and ruffled, dark ebony and gleaming in the light of the many oil lamps in the room. From feathers, it slowly transitioned into fur that was so short and so silken, John could see the clear outline of every single defined muscle sliding beneath the fine hair. It huffs again, and its sideways eyelids blink slowly. Black talons the size of dinner knives scratch curiously at the floor, set into muscular, birdlike legs with shining black scales.  
  
He looks unlike any griffin who has ever lived, or at least any that's ever been recorded in any book.

 

"I need to sit down." John whispers and luckily, there's his chair again. Set behind him so he can fall back into it without even having to look to see where he's going.  
  
Sherlock is a griffin. A beautiful, dark, dangerous griffin. It's astonishing and wonderful and terrifying and John is starting to get dizzy, not knowing what the think first.  
  
But as confused as he is absolutely sure of the next thing he says.  
  
"Change back."

 

The griffin makes a warbling noise and walks forward a few paces, before suddenly he presses his beak to John's cheek and lifts his head, so those crystalline silver eyes look directly into his. He blinks slow, his breath puffing over John's face, and there's a twinkle in his eyes. It's as if he's saying _trust me._

 

"You said you wanted me here for this." John says sadly. "But you couldn't wait. The least you can do is let me see you change back for the first time."

 

The griffin stepped back with a nod of his great black head. Before John's very eyes, the beak began to shrink and the talons disappeared, the scales soaked back into his flesh and the fur retracted. He was standing on wobbling legs as his joints returned to normal, atlhough the dark pair of ears and tail remained, and now too did the wings, spread out behind him and lying limp on the ground. He was completely naked, and John could see the way his legs shook. He shot up out of his chair, catching Sherlock as he stumbled forward, who clung to him desperately about the neck while the wings slowly, slowly pulled back into his body. He was panting hard against John's neck as he clutched him tightly, unsure of his own two legs.

 

"You're an idiot. And if I didn't think it might kill you I would punch you right now." John says, slowly turning them around so he can settle Sherlock into the chair.

 

The tail and ears, however, still remain. "It was incredible John!" Sherlock cried breathlessly as he sags willingly into the chair, pulling his legs up to shield his nakedness. "Unbelievable, absolutely... unbelievable." he grins and closes his eyes as he relaxes into the softness of the chair.

 

John doesn't smile. He just looks down at Sherlock, eyes weighted with sadness and disappointment. He thinks up a blanket and there it is. He silently tucks it around Sherlock and goes across the room where a kettle with hot water and various types of tea is waiting. But he doesn't say anything.

 

"John, what's wrong?" Sherlock's own smile slips.

 

"You asked me to be here with you. I said I would be if you just gave me time." John says quietly. "But you just couldn't wait. I thought maybe it was something that really mattered to you and I was wrong. And if something had gone wrong I wouldn't have had a chance to say goodbye."

 

Sherlock frowns and stares down at his hands. "I didn't mean... I mean, I thought... I just wanted to impress you. I was scared of... looking weak, while I changed. I didn't want you to see me fail. I just wanted you to see the aftermath, see what I'd done. I didn't honestly expect it to work, but it did, and I just... I had to fly. I thought for sure I would be back and change back before you got in."

 

"Well you were wrong." John says, settling on a strong earl grey for his tea. "I got back and I panicked. So thank you for that. Tea?"

 

"I don't want any," Sherlock gets up from the chair, clutching the blanket as he crosses the room until he's directly behind John. There's only a hair's breadth between his chest and the other boy's back. "I'm sorry, John. I wanted to impress you."

 

"You always impress me Sherlock. You impress to the point where I am sick of being impressed." John replies a little more venomously than he intended. He continues making his tea, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock's presence directly behind him even though he can feel him there. "You wanted to share something with me. That would have meant a good bit more."

 

Sherlock suddenly steps away from John's body, and goose bumps prickle across his neck and shoulders when he hears the blanket drop to the floor. His mouth goes dry, but then he can hear the sound of flesh shifting, and when he whirls around, Sherlock is a griffin again.  
  
But he doesn't take flight. He dips his head low to the ground, and he spreads his wings, and he lifts his silvery eyes to look at John expectantly.

 

"No. No way. I only fly on broomsticks, you know that." John says, shaking his head. But Sherlock doesn't move and he hesitantly takes a step closer.

 

Sherlock nudges John's knees with his beak and hunches his shoulders a little bit lower and gives a little chirrup.

 

“Alright, alright fine. But if you drop me I'm going to use your skin to decorate the Gryffindor common room." John says as he climbs onto Sherlock's back.

 

The weight of John against his back is wonderful, and Sherlock shifts his shoulders a little bit to more evenly settle him over his wings, each knee hooked over the top of where they connect to his shoulders, and his fingers raked deep into the heavenly soft feathers around his ears. He gives another chirp and wiggles his back to make sure John is situated on good and solid.

 

John clutches at Sherlock's feathers, holding them tight in his hands to keep from slipping. His legs are locked tight because at any second he knows Sherlock is going to take off and he really doesn't want to fall.

 

With another, louder chirp, John can feel Sherlock's body ripple and move as he takes off running for the window. He pulls his wings in to shoot through the window, and he cries out in joy and the griffin equivalent of laughter when John screams as they corkscrew towards the ground. He flings his wings out and they soar up into the sky, the wind bitter cold as they go, but so refreshing.

 

John fell forward onto Sherlock, his arms wrapping around the griffin's neck so he can hold on better. It's nothing like being on a broom. He has no control here. There's no way to direct Sherlock or control their speed. And the constant movement on either side as his wings move up and down is disturbing.  
  
But there's the familiar wind in his face and blowing back is short blond hair. There's the sky and ground and nothing holding him to it. He's still scared, but he's enjoying himself a little too.

 

Sherlock gives out a screech of joy as they soar over the great lake, dipping low enough to tease the giant squid, and then they're arcing back up into the very last rays of sunlight, catching its warmth and John reaches up tentatively to rake his fingers through the clouds over his head.  
  
Sherlock loves the feeling of John against his body as he flies. It feels like he weighs almost nothing, despite the fact that John is one of the most successful (and most muscular) beaters on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The weight of him is not only comforting, but exhilarating, and he gives another shriek.

 

John laughs shakily as they fly, starting to enjoy the ride. He'd still pick a broomstick over a griffin any day but this is Sherlock. He and Sherlock are flying, together, and that's absolutely brilliant. It's something he can never share with anyone else and a gift he hopes Sherlock won't give anyone other him. And then, even though he's laughing, he's starting to tear up a little too.

 

They soar together until the last rays of sunlight disappear and moonlight fills the night, and it's starting to get cold. Suddenly Sherlock dives for the ground, and hits down maybe a little bit too hard, and if John hadn't been holding on so tightly he probably would have gone tumbling over Sherlock's head. The griffin suddenly tips his body and throws John's weight from him, and all too suddenly he's shifting back, moaning with pain as everything that's much too large retracts into his starlight white and very thin body. The tail and ears, blast them all, remain, and Sherlock is curled naked on the dirt ground of the forbidden forest.  
  
"Sorry, I'm sorry," he says through clicking teeth, and he curls his slender tail around his knees. "I had to change back, it was - I could feel it slipping, I didn't want us t-to fall."

 

“Sherlock you can't keep doing this." John says, taking off his cloak and throwing it over his shivering friend. "This is wrong. For an animagus the transformation is supposed to be painless. It should be an easy transition. The spell went wrong somehow. So stop, please. Before you hurt yourself."

 

Sherlock clutches the cloak around his body, soaking in the heat and the smell of John around him as he looks up, the ears on his head flattened back to try and retain warmth. "I'm new at this, I'm sure the pain will go away. The book mentioned possible minor discomfort in the beginnings, depending on your animal. If you've got to grow a lot of extra parts, like a moose or a giraffe then it will cause you more pain than if you're turning into a dog or a serpent."

 

"Sherlock this isn't minor discomfort. And you're naked. Animagi are supposed to keep their clothes when they change." John argues. He crouches down next to Sherlock and lifts him into his arms, bridal style. "Something went very very wrong. But there's nothing we can do about it out here. Let's get you back up to the castle."

 

"I took my clothes off, thank you very much," Sherlock said, shrugging away from John's touch. "I don't want to go back to the castle, I want to keep practicing. I can't walk all the way there like this, I'll freeze and my feet will end up bleeding. I'd rather wait, catch my breath, and fly back."

 

"I can carry you. It's not a problem." John offers. "I don't like staying out here. And I don't want you flying back when turning hurts you so much."

 

"Turning doesn't hurt," Sherlock shakes his head. "It's turning back that gives me grief."

 

"That scares me more." John admits. He holds his hand out to Sherlock again. "Let me help you Sherlock. Please. Just this once."

 

Sherlock's legs wobble when he stands, and he falls gracelessly into John, holding at his shoulder with one arm and with the other, holding the other boy's robe closed around his form. "We'll get caught if we just go walking in through the doors, we're not supposed to be out this late," he says, pressing himself more tightly against John to try and absorb some of his warmth through his jumper.

 

"I know a few secret passages." John says, lifting Sherlock into his arms again. "You'll just have to shut up for a while."  
  
He carries Sherlock out of the forest and around the side of the castle to one of the greenhouses. There's a door there that leads to a supply closet and another door on the other side of that that leaves them on the first floor, behind the great hall. From there it's a lot of hiding behind statues and praying to Merlin that they won't get caught before they finally arrive back in front of the blank stretch of wall that hides the room of requirement.

 

This time, instead of tables and a large open space for practicing his transformation, there's a giant four-poster velveteen bed with Sherlock's clothes folded neatly on top of it. There's that same chair, in front of a round table with two steaming mugs - John's tea, and a mug of warm butterbeer for Sherlock's sweet tooth. He completely ignores his own clothes, slipping his arms instead through the sleeves of John's robe, and he paces quietly to the mug. He lifts it from the table and goes to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling his legs up cross-ways and settling some of the fabric in his lap modestly.  
  
"Isn't it amazing?" he grins at John as he sits in the chair and sips his tea. "I told you it was unbelievable."

 

"It was nice Sherlock." John says, taking his place in his chair. "Completely terrifying though, not sure I'll be doing that again. But," he pauses and smiles. "Thank you. Sharing that with me can't have been easy for you."  
  
He sips his tea as he looks around the room. There's just the one bed and Sherlock's clothes and he wonders if this is Sherlock's subtle way of telling him it's time to go. That he needs his rest and after this cup John should go back up to his dormitory.

 

"It was incredibly easy," Sherlock argues, licking some of the butterbeer foam from his lower lip. "I... I loved the feeling of you on my back. The way your legs hooked over my wings, and your fingers fit between my feathers... it's like you were meant to ride me." his eye contact with the boy was unbroken.

 

John blushes and tries to look away but he can't. Those eyes are holding him captive. Sherlock can't possibly understand how his words could be taken out of context or the reaction they're having on John, especially paired with those beautiful, silver eyes. Then he licks his lips again and John can't take it.  
  
He stands, suddenly, dropping his tea cup and takes a step towards the bed. It's the crash that snaps him back to reality and his face is burning with the thought of what he was going to do. He fancies Sherlock, yes, but Sherlock already turned away from him once tonight.  
  
"I have to go." he says shakily. "It's late and I have homework and I should go before I do something stupid."

 

"What stupid thing were you about to do John?" Sherlock asks, and John freezes in his tracks. His mouth is dry. "Tell me, John."

 

"I was going to kiss you." John admits. "I was going to grab you and kiss you and then push you back onto the bed so I could climb on top of you and snog you until neither of us could breathe. I'm sorry."

 

He turns when Sherlock is silent, and he sees that the taller boy's legs were spread shamelessly, hanging over the end of the bed. His silver eyes are bright as he looks at John, his chest rising and falling with even breaths. "You could do so much better than me, John," he says, his voice lower than usual as he wets his lips again.

 

His tail slips down from the covers to swish at the floor, and his ears are alert and pointing directly at the other boy. "You're a Gryffindor,"

 

He slips off the bed, the robe falling open around his hips. "Beater for the Quidditch team, and a damn good one at that." He begins to circle John. "Broad. Strong. Blonde. Handsome as the devil himself and twice as quick." He stops directly in front of John.

 

"And you drive me mad." John growls. He reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arms, pulling him close. "Even when I go out on dates with smart, funny, beautiful girls I think 'This is so tedious, when will this end so I can go find Sherlock'. You're driving me absolutely out of my head. You keep me up at night Sherlock. I think of you and how you look and sound and all the damned things I want to do with you. And when I think there might be something you turn away. But a few hours later you do something like this."  
  
There's barely two inches between them now, John's neck is stretched to its limit as he looks up at Sherlock and Sherlock is looking down at him, his damn silver eyes boring into him.  
  
"You're interesting and sexy and beautiful and mysterious. And you treat me like garbage but you make up for it in the most brilliant ways. You are what I want and by Merlin if you don't say something soon I won't be able to help myself."

 

Sherlock grabs John by the tie and slips it slowly, slowly out of his jumper so he can get a firmer hold on it. "How about," he starts slowly, letting John's robe fall off his body one sleeve at a time, never releasing his tie completely. "You bend me over that bed, and have your wicked way with me. Because I've just made the room soundproof."

 

John grins and reaches up, a hand sliding around Sherlock's neck to pull him down so he can seal their lips together like he's been thinking of doing for far too long.  
  
And it's brilliant. It's just like what he imagined. He can taste Sherlock's butterbeer and underneath that the faint taste of Sherlock's cigarettes and a bit of coffee. He tastes a lot like how he smells just stronger and John loves it. It's so brilliant and perfect that he refuses to break the kiss, still holding Sherlock against him as he backs them over to the bed.

 

Sherlock kicks his folded clothes off the bed as the pair scramble onto the velvet covers, and he spreads his legs in invitation. The weight of John against him now is so much stronger than when he's a griffin. He curls his tail around their bodies to tickle at the boy's lower back as he slides his jumper and button-down up over his head at the same time. "John, oh, John," Sherlock tips his head back when the other boy's teeth meet his neck, and he wraps his legs tightly around his waist.

 

"Sherlock," John answers. Then his tongue is sliding over Sherlock's pulse, feeling it quicken in anticipation before he leaves it to tease his ears with his lips and teeth.  
  
His pants are starting to feel tight. He's getting hard faster than he has in a long time and thank Merlin Sherlock is too.  
  
"You're sure?" he asks, voice low and hot in Sherlock's ear. "You sure you want this? With some hopeless jock like me?"

 

Sherlock's legs are quaking around John's waist, and he can _feel_ how thick he is with muscle, and Sherlock feels faint. "Yes, John, please," he breathes, his cock tightening hopelessly as John nibbles at the insides of his ears, the only place he won't get fur in his teeth. "I want this so bad I can feel it down to my bones, John."  
  
He wonders what it is that brought this about. He's always thought John was radiant with masculine energy. Bright and crisp in the way he walked and the way he talked, even the way he treated people. He was so refreshingly candid in all that he did, he stuck out a mile from the rest of the dull roar of Hogwarts. 

He assumes it has something to do with getting his transfiguration right for the first time. He's connected himself with the part of him that's animal, and suddenly he's needing to mate with the ferocity of a griffin in heat, so he bucks his hips up desperately and rakes his trimmed nails down John's perfect back.

 

John growls deep in his throat and he pulls back so he can unbutton his trousers. In seconds they're off, pants too. Now there's nothing between him and Sherlock. So he leans back in, kissing him hard on the mouth again and their entire bodies are touching, from lips to knees they are connected. And when his erection meets Sherlock's there's no force in the world that could hold back the moan that escaped him.

 

Not usually one for physical relationships (they’re far too messy, and they take up time that he could be using for so many other more important things) Sherlock can hardly contend with the sensations rolling through him in hot, heady waves. He feels like he’s heavy with lead, but weightless at once, and when John’s lips meet his nipples and the soft, pale skin of his belly he thinks he’s going to lose his mind. He rocks up against the other boy, turning his head to the side with a sigh and his tail swishes from side to side between his legs.

 

“John, oh, _Merlin_ John, please,” he moans, arcing his back up and digging his nails into the boy’s shoulders when his lips make contact with the tender skin of his inner thighs.

 

John groans happily against Sherlock's skin as he sets to work sucking a mark into the soft flesh of his thigh. He loves Sherlock's voice, usually so deep and commanding, moaning and whining and begging him for more. The way Sherlock says his name shoots right to John's cock and he grinds against the soft bed, seeking relief.

 

"John," Sherlock growls, arching his hips up. One of his hands pulls deep into John's hair, holding the short strands tight between his fingers, and the other lifts to dig into his own scalp and give his hair a sharp pull. He experimentally tugs on one of his ears and the yelp that leaves him is sweet as sugar.

 

John looks up and glares at Sherlock, only to be met by a smug smile. Well he'll show him.  
  
John breaks eye contact to return to his work, determined to see Sherlock completely undone. Without any warning he fits his lips tight around the head of Sherlock's cock and starts to suck.

 

Sherlock squirms on the bed with an animalistic yowl, his tail whipping back and forth between John's legs as he struggles to comprehend the wave of sensation reeling through him. He jolts his hips up, his toes curl and his ears flatten back, and every part of his body is taught and ready to snap.

 

John takes hold of Sherlock's hips, keeping him steady as he works. He slowly inches down the shaft, careful about how much he's taking in. He's only down this a few times before, just out of curiosity with the other boys on the Quidditch team, so he's not very good and he can't take much without gagging. But he's doing his absolute best for Sherlock.

 

"John, John, John," Sherlock chants breathlessly, his nerves alight like they're on fire, his tail whipping faster now and stinging John's knees and ankles where he's crouched over the other boy.

 

John rubs soothing circles into Sherlock's skin, just inside his prominent hip bones, trying to sooth the Ravenclaw. He wants them both to enjoy this and Sherlock seems too agitated, despite his soft murmurs of encouragement.  
  
John keeps moving down until he can't take anymore. Sherlock's cock is as far into his mouth as he can go without choking on it. He starts to bob his head a little, sometimes taking in a little more before he pulls back again. It's not always even and his rhythm isn't perfect but Sherlock is as unpracticed in this as he is so it can't be that awful for him.

Sherlock feels like he's going to burst apart his whole body rocking up helplessly, forced into stillness by John's strong touch. He lifts both of his hands to pull and rub at his ears, a feeling that jettisons directly to his cock, pulsing strongly in John's mouth.  
  
A sudden idea hits him, but it takes him several moments to get the words out between his desperate moans.  
  
"John, pl- ah! Please, touch my tail," he begs with a sigh.

 

John hums in agreement and almost laughs at the way Sherlock squirms as the vibrations work their way down his cock. One hand leaves Sherlock's hip and wraps around his tail. He strokes and lightly tugs on the soft, silky length.

 

Sherlock nearly comes right there, and suddenly and very roughly shoves John's head away to keep it from ending too soon. The feeling of John's fingers pulling at his tail gently is heavenly, and in tandem with the stroke of his lips along his cock is impossible to live through, it seems. He's sure his heart is going to give out.  
  
"Oh, John, _oh, oh, oh_ John!" he moans, completely unaware that the boy hadn't continued to blow him, and was focusing only on twisting and squeezing his fingers along his tail.

 

"You're so beautiful." John whispers. He slides up Sherlock's body, kissing as he goes. His hand never stops working Sherlock's tail, even when he seals their lips together again.

 

Sherlock moans and mewls hopelessly into John's mouth, guiding the blonde's free hand to his ear. The double assault of pleasure on parts of his body that normally aren't there is amazing, and he knows he's going to have to test out just how quickly he can get himself off with these new appendages.

 

John breaks the kiss and latches onto Sherlock's neck. He kisses and sucks and bites, whispering compliments into his skin every time he breaks away for air.  
  
"You're so perfect Sherlock," he mutters, one hand tightening around Sherlock's tail and the other tugging on his ear, eliciting a sharp cry from the other boy. "You're so beautiful and soft and brilliant. Tell me how you feel Sherlock, please."

 

"I feel good, John, so good, oh _Merlin_ John please keep doing this, I'm so close, I'm going to come John," Sherlock babbles, the tip of his tail swishing so fast it could probably take someone's head off. "I can feel - _mmh_ \- I can feel your touch, I can visualize your fingerprints, John, I can - ohhh, John, yes,"  
  
He arches up off the bed as a shockwave pulses sharply in his cock, which is weeping openly across his white belly.  
  
"I can feel it, I'm getting closer, so close, John, your hands feel so good, so good, John, John!"

 

“Come for me Sherlock." John whispers. He can feel the tension in Sherlock's body and he knows how close he is. He just needs that final push to send him over to edge, to make him come completely undone like John so desperately wants him to.

 

Sherlock's head is thrown back as his pleasure mounts, his come speckling his belly. He opens his mouth to scream, but all that escapes is a bare little whine. His ears flatten back, his tail goes rigid, and his entire body tightens up as shockwaves rock him to the center of the earth.

 

John pulls back a little to watch and _Merlin_ it is beautiful. Sherlock's whole body tight and flushed a light pink, his mouth open just a little but eyes shut. He's completely lost in his own world. He's open and vulnerable and more gorgeous than John had even hoped for.

 

Sherlock finally slumps against the covers, his tail twitching against his will and his ears trembling, and then before John's very eyes, they're shrinking back into his body, and the ears on either side of his jaw reappear where they're supposed to be.  
  
He moans weakly as the furred parts slip back into his flesh, and then he's entirely human once more as he gazes lazily up at John. "Interesting," he murmurs, licking his lips. "This will require further study."  
  
He rolls over onto his belly abruptly and with no warning whatsoever, closes his mouth around the head of John's aching length.

 

"Bloody hell!" John cries out in mingled shock and pleasure. He falls back onto the bed and one hand goes to Sherlock's hair, lightly taking hold of the thick dark locks. He's not tugging or pushing or even holding him still. He uses the touch to steady himself and through it he can feel the little ways Sherlock moves while his mouth teases him.

 

The Ravenclaw traces the veins bulging from John's bursting length hungrily, lapping away every pearl of precome before it even has a chance to chase a trail down the underside of John's cock.  
  
Sherlock is fascinated with this. The way John arches, the sound of his voice, the feel of his fingers in his hair, and of course above all else, the taste of his cock. He's thick, too thick, so thick his jaw aches, but he hums through the discomfort, sucking at the length with graceful abandon.

 

John hisses and curses, his hands tightening in Sherlock's hair, then relaxing while he tries to keep his hips steady. This wasn't exactly how he had imagined this going but he isn't going to complain. And while Sherlock's methods might be a little sloppy he's getting the job done and already John can feel his body starting to tighten up in anticipation.

 

Sherlock suddenly looks up, his eyes bright, pupils still slitted, and he makes eye contact with John through his dark lashes. A hungry, predatory look is in his eye and he slides John's length a little farther into his mouth, never breaking eye contact. He palms the Gryffindor's balls roughly, trying to urge him to climax faster.

 

"Oh fuck Sherlock!" John gasps, his eyes closing again. He writhes and bucks a little, trying to push himself farther into Sherlock's perfect mouth. "You- you keep that up I'm not going to last much long."

 

Sherlock relaxes his jaw and closes his eyes after John breaks eye contact, and gets a wicked idea. Slipping his mouth from John's length, he instead begins to trace his tightening balls with his tongue, and then allowed the soft flesh into his mouth, where he began to suck as though his life depended on it. He slid his hands along John's cock both at a time, humming contentedly against the strong, masculine taste swirling on his tongue as he pressed it between the individual bulbs in his mouth.

 

"Fuck!" John yells and that's it; he unravels. His body tightens, the hand in Sherlock's hair clenching tight enough to pull, and ropes of come spurt over his belly and a little onto his chest.

 

Sherlock pulls back in order to watch, admiring the way John's abs tighten as he comes, the way his brows furrow and his arms bulge with effort as they clench in Sherlock's hair. He licks his lips before diving in to sweep the slick liquid off his body.

 

John’s panting harshly when he opens his eyes, aware of something warm and soft sweeping over his belly. He looks down to see Sherlock licking him clean and closes his eyes again because that's a little too much right now.  
  
"Merlin that was good." he murmurs, releasing Sherlock's hair.

 

Sherlock hums in agreement once John is clean, and slides his body to fit it between John's thighs. He nudges at his pulsepoint and plants a few gentle kisses there before laying his head against the other boy's shoulder.  
  
"There will be repeats of this event," he says firmly, lifting his head again to look John in the eye. "And you will not go on any more dates."

 

"Agreed." John laughs, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. "Absolutely. But I get to be more affectionate with you. No snogging in the corridor or anything but I get to be a bit more hands on."

 

Sherlock crinkles his nose as he thinks it over before finally sighing and nodding his head. "Deal," he says. "But I reserve the right to swat you away."

"Fine. Now I'm tired. So shut it and let's go to sleep." John orders, already drifting off.

 

Sherlock looks longingly across the room at the book, but when John's arm tightens around his waist, he decides that it can wait, and he burritos the blankets over the two of them and snuggles in close.

 


End file.
